


when oblivion is calling out your name

by blazeofglory



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Gen, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-28
Updated: 2014-10-28
Packaged: 2018-02-22 23:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2525432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blazeofglory/pseuds/blazeofglory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras valued logic and facts and <i>order</i>. Was it too much to ask for a little control over his life?</p>
            </blockquote>





	when oblivion is calling out your name

Above all else, Enjolras was a logical person. He led with his heart, sure, but he always knew the facts, the statistics, had every citation and source he might need on standby. He valued control, part of what made him the natural leader of Les Amis. He could organize and plan better than anyone else because he knew every detail of what they were trying to do. He shared that control with Combeferre and Courfeyrac as much as he felt comfortable, which wasn’t exactly much. Of course he trusted them, but if he did it himself, he knew for sure that it would get done how he wanted.

Enjolras controlled every little thing he could. His dorm room, a single that he'd had to pay extra money for, was kept spotless. Courf and Ferre were the only ones ever allowed inside, and only because they knew to take off their shoes and keep everything in order-- sit on the floor, not the bed; don’t touch the desk; never bring food. Combeferre had once suggested, in that quiet, trusting voice of his, that perhaps Enjolras was OCD. Enjolras had considered it, but then ultimately dismissed it; he was simply a perfectionist.

Combeferre, oddly enough, hadn’t noticed what was actually wrong.

Try as he might, Enjolras could not control every aspect of his life. Even when he spent hours slaving over a paper, working well into the night for days on end, skipping out on time with friends and rushing meals, practically living in the library-- still, he did not always achieve perfection. After all, college professors rarely gave out 100%s, did they? And even if he knew he set the curve for the rest of the class, _99% was not enough_ , let alone a 95 or an 83. Even when he planned every minute of an Amis meeting to the last possible second, allowing time for conversation and comments and breaks for food, there would always be something to disrupt the flow. Courfeyrac would decide he had some story to share, or Marius would rave about the love of his life, or Grantaire would propose an argument that took ten minutes to state-- there was always something.

Enjolras handled it; he always did. He could deal with a loss of control, so long as he made up for it somewhere else. Not as punishment, exactly, though perhaps penance. When he got an 83 on a paper, he did not eat for a week. It was something for him to _control_ , to understand fully, to know exactly what was going on. Did he deserve to eat anyway, after such a poor grade? How on earth had he earned a meal?

After a meeting ran long, thrown off by twenty different side conversations, Enjolras had to step outside. It was the middle of October, so it was cold, but the chill kept him alert. He’d gotten just shy of perfect on a midterm the day before, and had been panicking about failing-- if he slipped up in one class, the rest would follow, and the next thing he knew, he’d be flunking out of school. He had hoped the meeting would help mellow him out, as being around his friends often did, but _of course_ no one would pay attention to what they were supposed to be doing. So he stood outside, gathering his bearings and smoking a cigarette, hoping to calm his nerves.

Enjolras was not dumb enough to believe that no one had noticed his exit, but he kind of figured that they all had better things to worry about. No one should have any reason to think anything was amiss, as far as he knew. He certainly wasn’t acting any different, and he’d always been thin, so what was there to question if his ribs grew more pronounced? Who would notice his collarbone sharp enough to cut? No one looked close enough; there was never reason to. He knew he had a pretty face, but no body to match it, and it wasn’t as if any of his friends would care to look anyway.

He jumped, then, when someone spoke up from behind him. Courfeyrac’s voice was soft though, as if he had known Enjolras might startle and wanted to avoid it. “Since when do you smoke?”

Enjolras turned to his friend with a tight smile, cheeks flushed from the cold and cigarette dangling from his fingertips. “When I’m stressed, sometimes.” Or hungry. Or tired. It really wasn’t that often, but it had started to get more frequent.

Courfeyrac just nodded and leaned back against the wall next to him, staring out across the street. “It was the meeting, right? Ran too long, got too rowdy?”

“A bit,” Enjolras answered honestly, glancing sideways at his friend. He knew that Enjolras strived for order and perfection, but surely he didn’t know the extent. If he did, he would have said something ages ago. “I just needed a break.”

“Long week?”

Enjolras nodded, though Courfeyrac hardly needed his assent to know he was right. Courf, Combeferre, and Enjolras all practically knew each other like the backs of their hands; they didn’t need to ask to know that something was wrong. And because they knew each other so well, Enjolras knew that Courfeyrac was dying to ask questions, because of course he knew there was something deeper going on, but he respected Enjolras's privacy too much to ask. For once, Enjolras almost wanted him to ask anyway.

“It’s getting better,” Enjolras finally replied, dropping the cigarette to the ground and crushing it with the toe of his shoe. He forced a smile, thinking _fake it ‘til you make it_. “Let’s go back inside.”


End file.
